


On Foot.

by werewolve



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Canon Relationship, Not Canon Compliant, Other, Pre-Relationship, Some Plot, but the whole fic is based around that one line in episode two about not touching roach, genuinely the whole fic was inspired by that one line, that's too many tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:01:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22894537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werewolve/pseuds/werewolve
Summary: Jaskier has been following Geralt for a while now, he always walks, he can never really walk far. His complaining may as well be Geralt's morning newspaper.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 207





	On Foot.

Jaskier remained insistent that he must travel with Geralt everywhere in order to truly understand his ventures; Geralt remained insistent that Jaskier would do so by foot. The bard had complained about this perhaps once or twice over the course of their journeys. It was rather more accurate to say that every now and then he decided to chew Geralt’s ear off about his poor feet and how his boots would never survive again if he kept up this habit. 

Geralt merely told him not to follow, then. 

Of course, Jaskier didn’t listen. His blissful ignorance towards statements he disliked was almost like a second nature to him, Geralt discovered this rather quickly. Anything he said, or anything others said, that the bard took offence to was as quickly dismissed as his next thought was voiced. Julian Alfred Pankratz was nothing if not a stubborn man. On the surface this stubbornness and inability to keep quiet made him seem naive; to everybody who only briefly knew him Jaskier was a simple and annoying man of many talents. To the one person, however, who knew him far longer (not by choice, but also not with any complaints, at least not meaningful ones) Jaskier was not quite as youthfully unaware as he seemed. Aged eighteen the bard already knew almost as much as the witcher did, and the topics he didn’t know weren’t ones he particularly needed to be aware of. Aged nineteen Jaskier had revealed he had knowledge of things, people and objects Geralt had never even considered. Aged twenty, he’d spent long enough in the White Wolf’s company to not only have proven himself to not be naive, but also to have learned enough from Geralt to maintain an incredibly solid air of maturity that fell only in the company of others or in times when his feelings were hurt. 

Geralt supposed, or at least ventured to convince himself, that this was why he kept Jaskier around.

The bard proved useful at times, that he couldn’t deny. Company was not his forte unless you counted Roach, and yet Jaskier never seemed particularly unhappy. He was always rather chipper in fact, besides the short moments Geralt caught him when the bard wasn’t aware he was looking, and even then the brunette’s look was less unhappy and more… longing. The witcher never truly understood those moments, he also told himself he didn’t care enough to attempt to understand. 

As of the current moment in time, they were on a particularly arduous journey along the swamps. Geralt had heard word of a monster, and the pair of them had been tracking it for around thirteen miles now. Thirteen miles wasn’t a particularly long distance for a man on a horse, it perhaps wouldn’t even be long for a man on foot given that he was fit enough. Jaskier hadn’t complained yet, and so Geralt assumed this to be true to him too. However in his lack of complaint, Jaskier lacked saying anything… at all. Silence was unbecoming of any bard, but it was particularly strange in reference to Geralt’s bard. He couldn’t recall a time Jaskier had been so quiet for so long, and yet he was quite sure that for at least the last seven miles he’d only heard one comment from the man and perhaps two instances of him idly strumming his lute strings. 

Geralt cleared his throat in an attempt to subtly (not-so) draw Jaskier’s attention, but upon flicking his gaze to the brunette he saw that Jaskier was ever as distant as before. The bard stared at the road ahead of them, his eyes fixated like he was following something in the dirt, the only indication that he was present was the thumb that ran back and forth over the strap of his instrument in a small figure of eight. 

‘Jaskier.’ Geralt once more vied for the bard’s attention, voice as stern and harsh as the times he was giving a warning of danger in the hopes that it would shock his companion out of whatever trance he was in. 

‘Hm?’ Jaskier did reply, but half-heartedly. Even in his consciousness of his own name, he was further away than Geralt could reach. ‘Geralt?’

The witcher shook his head, scrunching his features in defeat and pulling Roach to a halt. Giving a sigh, he reached out his hand. 

‘Why are we stopping?’ That seemed to snap Jaskier out of it, at least partially. ‘Is the monster nearby?’ 

The bard swung on his heel in an attempt to survey his surroundings and instead tumbled a few steps backwards, shoulder blades hitting Geralt’s outstretched hand. At the touch, he jumped, becoming immediately apologetic. After perhaps the fourth repetition of ‘Great Gods, I’m sorry’, Geralt had decided enough was enough. 

‘Take my hand, Jaskier.’

‘S- What?’ Jaskier eyed the calloused hand for a moment, seeming to consider the suggestion before turning his gaze back to Geralt’s face with an expression of confusion etched into his own features.

‘You’ve been walking for too long, take my hand. I’m not asking again.’

‘Geralt I’m not sure if you’re aware but I’m a perfectly healthy man. I’ve been walking with you for multiple years now I doubt one more mile will kill me, and if it does well what a way to go, right?’

‘Jaskier.’

Jaskier winced a little at the sound of his name being repeated once more and rolling his eyes he slid his fingers into Geralt’s palm. ‘What are you going to do then? Hold me up until we- WOAH!’

In a swift and seemingly effortless movement for the witcher, he pulled Jaskier up so that the bard had no choice but to mount the horse or fall incredibly ungracefully to the ground. Of course, Jaskier chose the former- though all didn’t go exactly to plan even then. Geralt had intended for Jaskier to be sat behind him, the seat there wouldn’t be the most comfortable being half atop their bags, but it would at least serve to distance the man from himself. It was enough that he was making the gesture, the last thing he needed was his personal space invaded more than it would be. And yet that was exactly what he received. 

In the way he had pulled at Jaskier, the bard had needed to swing his leg in front of Geralt, or else he’d have fallen either way. This put him in the awkward position of straddling Roach’s neck- facing Geralt, a place he absolutely could not maintain a seat on both for his and Roach’s peace of mind, and therefore he ended up clumsily manoeuvring himself until he sat in a small patch of what was both saddle and Geralt’s lap. The witcher gave a disapproving grunt at the impact of Jaskier’s back to his chest and forced himself back slightly in the saddle out of an instinctive need for room. He would have protested more, but the small sway of Jaskier’s upper body as he removed himself as a stand post was enough to rekindle his earlier concern. The bard was most certainly not okay, and out of what Geralt told himself was concern for him endangering his job, he begrudgingly moved ever so slightly forward again to press himself flush to his riding companion. 

Jaskier, in feeling the odd sensation of both heat and touch against his shoulders, turned his head up and back to look at his friend. That look might have been the moment Geralt realised something he would forever pretend he did not, and yet in the moment, large scarred hands reached gently to smooth hair over a sweat speckled forehead that was not his own. 

‘You’re warm.’ Jaskier hummed for a moment, and then seemed to realise what he had said, ‘I’m warm. I mean… It's warm. It’s warm out.’

Geralt gave a small scoff, simply a shove of air from his nostrils, and nodded, ‘It is quite warm.’

‘You know I’m very tired.’

‘You’re dazed, we’ve been travelling for days and for too long today alone.’ 

Jaskier hummed again, a different hum this time. One with his usual chipper agreement to it. He turned his head back to look ahead of them, and as he did his hair brushed Geralt’s chin, tickling occasionally at his lips where it was long enough to do so. The bard was too tall to be sat in front of him, he was too close for Geralt to be comfortable, and yet.

‘Get some rest.’

‘I will later.’ Jaskier protested, despite the slump of his shoulders and the heavy hot feeling of sickness that overcame him on and off. ‘We have a quest ahead.’

Geralt gave a grumble, as usual, but stopped himself from trying again. Jaskier was, as already mentioned, too stubborn. The witcher simply needed to hope that nature would take over and force the bard into submission to his state. For the meantime, Geralt raised his chin just enough to see over Jaskier’s head and broke Roach back into a slow trot- something which only served to further sway the near helpless younger man. Jaskier seemed to have a hard time finding how to steady himself, his hands settled at the edge of the saddle but even then he was off balance.

Geralt wondered just how much he would be tested today. He’d acted out of some semblance of kindness and now it seems he would continue to be forced to face such emotions.

Sliding both reigns into one hand, he made sure they were positioned well enough before he slid his other arm around Jaskier’s waist. It wasn’t an ideal way to hold him in place, in fact, if anything it only threw off Geralt’s ability to balance too. However Geralt wasn’t riddled with heatstroke, and his reflexes were far faster, therefore his balance wasn’t really a good enough excuse to not follow through with the action. Jaskier seemed curious about it though, in a silent and almost intense way. At first, he simply looked down, watching Geralt’s fingers spread across his stomach, and then after a few moments, he was playing with torn threads on Geralt’s sleeve. A moment longer and he was tentatively pushing his own fingers through the witcher’s and squeezing their palms together. 

The action startled the White Wolf, even if he would never admit as much aloud. His breath caught as a bubble in his throat that only a cough would clear. Jaskier didn’t seem to notice or had decided not to, as he merely continued to run his thumb over Geralt’s hand in the same figure of eight shapes as earlier. 

For Geralt, intimate touch was found in inn beds in the early hours of the morning. He was always the one giving, never truly receiving, and it always cost him a price. Be it that he was doing it out of boredom, or for information, or simply because he couldn’t say no- Geralt’s experience of intimacy was no more intimate than a fleeting need for pleasure and a goodbye in the morning. Simple things such as hair against his chin and a thumb at his hand weren’t things he’d ever even considered to be as sacred as Jaskier seemed to make them. 

And the idea of love being their motivator never once even crossed his mind.

Their ride along the remaining stretch of swamps had been entirely uneventful. Whatever monster had been here, if there even had been a monster, had long since moved on. Seeing that the hunt was futile, Geralt once again pulled Roach to a stop and Jaskier, where he’d been asleep for a short while, seemed to stir, arching his back slightly to stretch. 

‘There’s no monster.’

‘Oh.’ The bard let out a yawn, followed swiftly by a scrunch of his features, ‘How dull.’ 

‘Hm.’ 

There were very few situations in which Geralt became unaware of how to act. Most often those situations were with leaders or with their sorts of people. Around monsters Geralt never needed to hesitate, he was swift and quick-witted and what he needed to do came naturally to him- be that killing or talking. Humans, on the other hand, were complicated, and those humans who’d managed to work their way to the top of the food chain were even more so. However over time, even this had begun to come as a natural process to him, he’d found similarities and rolled with them. 

So how was it that a meagre bard had turned him once more into a flustered and unaware man?

Flustered in Geralt’s sense of the word wasn’t quite flustered. The emotion, or act, or whatever it may be turned him less to the blushing mess others became and instead served to harden his resolve. It was this act of hardening that was what made him flustered because when this happened he became entirely unable to react to the present situation he was in. He supposed he’d by this point, then, entered a trance of his own- broken only by another squeeze to his palm.

‘Did you hear what I said?’

‘What?’

‘I’ll take that as a resounding no.’ Jaskier seemed to laugh, he sounded better than earlier, Geralt couldn’t focus enough to know if that was true, ‘I said: we should find somewhere to make camp.’

‘No. We should carry on moving.’

‘Geralt the sun is setting and you said to yourself there’s no monster, what’s the point in chasing something that might not exist?’

‘The fact that you said _might_.’

Jaskier might have rolled his eyes, Geralt couldn’t see to say for certain, but the sudden movement in front of him told him his answer hadn’t been well received. He watched, mostly unbothered, as Jaskier once more turned as he had earlier to look up at the witcher- only now Geralt could most certainly make out the blossoming sunburn that illuminated the bard’s nose and cheeks. With the hand not already laced with Geralt’s, Jaskier touched his own cheeks out of concern for the look he was being given, and almost immediately hissed in pain.

‘Oh gods, do not tell me-’

‘It’s not bad.’

‘Bollocks,’ An air of defeat seemed to roll over the brunette as he slumped, dropping his hand back to his lap, ‘Now I’ll be all freckled and strange looking.’

Geralt might have chuckled at that, of all things, being the bard’s concern. Though it wasn’t an exactly out of character note, and it told him that he was right in assuming Jaskier was better than earlier. Some combination of the bard’s gaze, this fact, and the tight squeeze of his hand were what finally made Geralt cave to his travel companions request- though only halfway. 

‘There’s a small village a short ride east, we can find somewhere to stay there.’

A compromise. Jaskier pondered this for a moment, and from Geralt’s perspective seemed to settle the plan in his mind. ‘An Inn would be nicer than the ground.’ 

‘I never said there was an Inn.’

‘Ah, lovely.’

Turning once more to sit facing the direction they’d be going, Jaskier leaned his weight against the witcher- this time consciously- and began to hum a gentle tune. It was one Geralt hadn’t heard before, but in parts, it sounded similar to the earlier idle lute-playing he’d heard. The white-haired man eyed that lute, which pressed somewhat awkwardly against his arm from where it had remained strapped to Jaskier’s back and allowed himself to get lost in his companion's musical interlude. They rode for another short while, stopping once at a stream so that Roach could drink, and by the time they reached the village the sun had all but completely set. Geralt took a moment longer than he needed to dismount, if only as an excuse to take longer to untangle his fingers from Jaskier’s- who, in response, held slightly onto Geralt’s ring finger as though to not let him go. 

Once on the ground, Geralt offered his hand again to help Jaskier down, and Jaskier gratefully accepted. The bard offered a final squeeze before letting go and turning to affectionately pat Roach’s side. 

It was a series of minute gestures, and yet there once again was something about each one that held Geralt in an odd position. The last time he’d even allowed somebody this close to Roach it had been Marilka, and even then he’d only done so for lack of a better choice. Roach was, you could say, his prized and only (besides his sword) possession. Geralt might disagree with the use of possession, but not with the idea in and of itself. He’d had many horses, many of them had even shared the same name as the current mare, all he had treasured- none quite as much as her. 

It took great effort to tear himself away from his thoughts, but Geralt did so, and in turning he surveyed their newest place of being. It was a quaint village, home to at a best guess likely less than a few hundred people, perhaps even less than that. The buildings were old, some decaying, some patched up in places with new stone or wood. It was not unlike any village they’d visited before, and yet Jaskier seemed enthralled- at least from the long sigh he gave. 

‘They never do look the same. People and their residences are always so different. Strange, isn’t it?’

‘Can’t say I’d noticed.’

It wasn’t technically a lie. Geralt never stayed in a place long enough to take it in fully, and he rarely committed anywhere to memory. There was little use in doing so, knowing he’d likely never return. But Jaskier was an artist, and they had a bad habit of getting attached to things quickly. Wherever they went he had some comment to make on the environment, and often he’d bring up details Geralt was entirely sure even the people living there themselves had never considered significant. It was a striking habit, another product of his constant need for chatter most likely. 

‘That’s because you never stop to look.’

‘I never need to,’ Geralt walked back to lift Roach’s reins, forming a click with his tongue that told both her and Jaskier that they were moving. ‘This way.’

‘How do you know about this place?’ Jaskier hurried to keep up with Geralt, and meeting his side once more looked around them, ‘I don’t think I even knew anybody lived out here.’

‘The people here don’t trade with the main kingdoms, that way they stay off most maps.’

‘Oh.’ The bard hummed. ‘Then you’ve done a job for them before?’

‘You could say that. I did bring something to them.’ 

It was, however, what Geralt had brought that he was hoping to find. It was a vastly long time ago that the whole situation had occurred, but at the time the boy had been no older than nine, which told Geralt there was a likelihood he was still alive. 

‘Do they like you here then?’

‘No.’

‘Oh. Then we’re here because…’

‘They don’t like anyone.’ Geralt patted at Roach’s side, throwing her reins over a nearby fencepost and turning back to Jaskier, ‘They simply tolerate them.’

‘I bet I could get them to like me.’

The witcher didn’t dignify that statement with a response, instead choosing to return to what he was doing as to ignore the prideful look on the bard’s face. Across from the fence he had tethered Roach to was a tavern, at the very least the singular detail he had noticed and memorised about the places they visited was the detail that each and every one had a tavern. Some were large extravagant places, some were as small as this one- but the human need for a place to drink was rather consistent no matter where one went. 

‘We’ll take the side door. We’re looking for the owner.’ 

‘The owner?’

‘Yes.’ Geralt gave a final pat to Roach before closing his fingers around his cloak and setting off in the direction of a dimly lit door towards the back of the building. 

Jaskier, however confused he may be, followed suit.

Geralt’s manners weren’t perhaps as brilliant as they should be, but no less he knew to knock whenever he arrived somewhere. It just so happened that most of the doors he knocked on tended to already be open. The room was cold, lit by a single candle, and coated in a thick layer of cobwebs. 

‘You know I don’t think-’

The witcher quickly hushed his companion with an outstretched hand, and moving further into the dark room closed his fingers over the hilt of his sword. Somewhere in the pitch-black corner, under a set of broken stairs, a scuffle caught his attention. He inched closer, using the tip of his blade to push an old barrel aside, and was relieved to find the noise to be that of a cat. His relief was quickly diminished as he turned to see Jaskier with a blade to his throat. 

The figure, whom it seemed had followed them in, held one gloved hand over the bard’s mouth and with another pressed a small dagger against an area Geralt knew all too well to be fatal. 

‘Lower your blade, witcher.’

‘And if I don’t? I suppose you’ll kill him?’ Geralt was testing the waters, the stranger's face was obscured and yet something told him this was an act.

‘I might, Geralt, unless you tell me why you’re back.’

‘Jan.’

The witcher did as he was originally told, resheathing his blade much to a look of distinct fear from his bardian counterpart. He attempted to sooth the panic with a glance, though the lack of light meant he wasn’t sure if Jaskier would actually see him. Seeing Geralt lower his weapon however, Jan did the same, and with a pat to Jaskier’s shoulder he let the man go. All was quiet, and Geralt aimed to speak, however, the silence was broken too soon before he could.

‘Are you perhaps insane?’ Jaskier exclaimed, ‘If you knew him why on earth did you hold me at knifepoint?’ 

‘The blade barely touched your skin,’ Jan dismissed the statement, ‘And Geralt and I aren’t exactly on the best terms.’ 

Jaskier looked as though he might begin to shout again, but something in the way Jan looked over to Geralt seemed to stop him. Instead he once again loosened in defeat and waved about a hand in a way that seemed to say ‘bollocks’ without the bard actually needing to utter the word. ‘Wonderful, we’re in an old wine cellar in an unknown town with your ex-boyfriend who may have just killed me not two seconds ago.’

Before Jaskier could really even finish, both men stood across from him had began to speak.

‘He’s not my boyfri-’ Jan started.

‘Jaskier, don’t.’ And Geralt overlapped. 

‘Well whatever you’re going to call this I want no part of it.’ The bard’s gaze lingered on Jan for a moment, and Geralt could have sworn to see a flicker of jealousy behind his eyes. 

‘I call this finding us a place to sleep.’ Geralt sighed, and turned back to the tavern owner, ‘We’ve been travelling for a while, the bard is tired, and the hunt I was promised fell through.’

‘I have no room spare.’ 

The witcher hummed, an air of warranted disappointment slumping his own shoulders, ‘Then we’ll move on.’

‘Wait.’ Jan spoke before the witcher could even move, ‘Across the village- there’s a stable. It’ll give you somewhere to sleep and a place to store your horse, it’s been abandoned for a few years now.’ 

‘Hm.’ Geralt nodded, ‘Thank you.’

Jan returned the nod, and Geralt set off to the door, grabbing at Jaskier’s arm to pull him along with him. Once they were outside, Geralt fixed his cloak and sighed, eyeing the sky as a cloud cover began to darken there. At the very least, an old stable would provide shelter from the rain. Jaskier kicked at the dirt beside him, and Geralt wondered how on earth he was going to explain this later- or if he even should. Amidst his wonder, a voice called out to him once again from the tavern.

‘Geralt, the boy died. Two years back. It was his stable.’

Without turning back, Geralt stiffened, and Jan seemed to acknowledge such a response even from where he was standing- smiling sadly and closing the cellar door to return to his duties. 

Biting a little at his lower lip, Geralt frowned, shaking his head to rid himself of the expression. He said no word to Jaskier, who stood open-mouthed and gawking at him, and instead walked out towards Roach once more to lead her towards the old stable. The bard respected Geralt’s lack of speech, appearing to have at least pieced one or two things together from the interaction, but followed quickly to catch up to his side as he had earlier. For Jaskier, Geralt’s past was somewhat of a mystery, and the witcher preferred to keep things that way. He didn’t know much of Jaskier’s past, and Jaskier didn’t know much of his. It was a mutual lack of knowledge that he would have been happy to upkeep until either one of them died. 

Of course, he did, actually, know more about Jaskier than he cared to admit. The bard had a habit of saying too much of himself, stories Geralt pretended he didn’t listen to, but even then- the darkest parts of Jaskier’s life, the ones he assumed formed that look of longing he’d caught so many times, were no more than a shot in the dark to him. Jaskier was an enigma in itself, and Geralt was unsure quite how to crack him. 

‘Years ago, I can’t remember the exact number, I was asked to kill a monster in a nearby town.’ Geralt began the story, and Jaskier immediately perked up, ‘There really was a monster, I really did kill it, and just as I was about to leave its tower a voice asked me why I had white hair. There, in the corner, a boy had crawled out from behind an old painting. He had snuck in the night before in the hopes of killing the monster himself, and had ended up trapped behind that painting for half a day.’ 

‘He’s the boy your old friend mentioned?’

‘He is. After I managed to get him to follow me out of the tower, he told me he had no parents. His father had died fighting and his mother was one of the victims of the beast. All he had left was his horse, and he was insistent we go and get her before we left.’ Geralt looked over to Roach, hummed, ‘He’d already decided he was coming with me, so I led him here, asked Jan to take care of him.’

‘Roach isn’t…?’

‘No, no.’ Geralt dismissed the question politely, ‘His horse was old and already dying when I first brought him here. Something tells me her death was the tragic reason for which these stables belonged to him.’ 

‘He became a stablehand?’

‘Seemingly.’

‘Seemingly?’ Jaskier had lagged behind a little, enraptured by the sad tale, and in that moment he caught up- creasing his brows, ‘You never came back to check on him?’

‘It’s not often I return to places. What happens after my job is done is none of my business.’

‘You’ve been here more than once though.’ Jaskier had a look about him that said he was attempting to figure something out, Geralt had decided it was pointless attempting to stop him.

‘I have.’

‘Before the boy?’

That was an obvious statement, it came along with the details Jaskier already knew and was concluded by Geralt’s two words, and yet still the bard asked. It wasn’t hard to figure out what he was trying to do by doing so, his reaction to Jan in the wine cellar had yet to leave the forefront of Geralt’s mind. He wondered just how often he’d managed to spark Jaskier’s jealousy over the years without realising. 

He was taking too long to answer, it seemed, because amidst his silence and not-so-blank stare forwards, Jaskier piped up again.

‘You know Jan well.’

‘You weren’t the first person to pluck up enough courage to outright approach me in a bar, Jaskier.’

‘I never assumed I was.’ He had assumed exactly that, actually, and he’d told Geralt that assumption on more than one occasion in the hopes of a reaction from the witcher. ‘When did you meet?’

‘Why does Jan bother you so much?’

Jaskier, having asked his questions so pressingly confidently, was suddenly floored. A few noises that might have been attempts at a response escaped his mouth and he groaned out of struggle. Geralt maintained his forward facing gaze, but he could picture perfectly the bard’s scrunched nose and hunched frame as he attempted to work through how on earth to explain himself. It wasn’t as though Jaskier’s curiosity wasn’t coming from somewhere personal- Geralt had seen that look earlier, he’d also experienced everything that had happened between them on the way here. Something told him his choice to come here of all places wasn’t exactly an impersonal one either. 

Seeing as though Jaskier had given up on a response, Geralt replied to what he had told him wordlessly, ‘Jan and I have about as much history as you and any of your conquests. Back when work was easier to find and witchers weren’t so sparse, this old village was a place to pass through. I stayed here often enough, and Jan worked the only place that served alcohol. We were little more than entertainment for the other in an otherwise boring time.’ 

‘He looked young.’

‘His wife is a sorceress. She keeps him as he was when he met her.’ 

‘Wife?’ An ‘O’ shape formed on Jaskier’s lips.

‘Yes,’ Geralt nodded as they finally approached their destination for the night, ‘So you can see why you have little reason to be jealous.’

‘W- Jealous?’ The bard scoffed, fake as it may have been, in a mildly convincing manner. He crossed his arms over his chest and halted as Geralt did, ‘You just never talk about anybody you know.’

The white-haired man once again returned to a simple act of not replying. He saw no need. Jaskier now knew everything he needed to know and there was nothing more to be said on the subject, not without revealing something neither of them had before. Leading Roach into the stable stall that looked the most intact, Geralt removed her tack and hung it where it should be, before pulling around at objects inside the stall to make it more liveable. As he exited, Jaskier stood leaning against the doorframe of the building, eyes following the witcher’s movements. 

Something told Geralt that Jaskier was considering what he had already considered and put to rest- the act of continuing the conversation. He couldn’t stop the bard from speaking his mind if he wished to, in fact he was somewhat curious as to what he might say, but in the meantime the broader man set about clearing out the other stalls. There were only two more, and the front of one and the wall that separated them were almost completely broken down. He wondered if the elements had done this or if it had been done by the hands of some other person. Either way, he wasn’t picky, and thankfully the place was still at least somewhat stocked with items to make the stay more comfortable. 

‘Geralt.’ The voice from behind him was small, almost shy. Geralt continued what he was doing as he listened, ‘What am I to you?’

Geralt pondered over the responses he could choose. Whether or not to be dumb to the question's implication. He decided the former was his best choice, at least until he’d figured out where Jaskier was planning to take this, ‘You’re the bard who followed me from a tavern and hasn’t stopped since.’ 

‘That’s who I am to anybody,’ Jaskier had moved, Geralt could hear a shuffle behind him, ‘I want to know who I am to you.’

‘I don’t let just anybody touch Roach.’ He was holding out, even still. His answers telling Jaskier everything and nothing at the same time. Geralt was perhaps stubborn himself. 

Jaskier, in turn, was closer now, at the stall entrance the witcher had guessed by the number of footsteps he heard. And was proven right by the quick flash of a boot close to his own as he smoothed out the hay across the dirt floor. 

‘Then I’m what… your friend?’ 

‘I don’t-’

‘Have friends, yes, I know.’ Jaskier sighed, lowering himself to crouch beside the White Wolf, ‘Then tell me, Geralt, honestly, what am I?’

‘You-’ He ground his teeth out of pain for his own response. Could he really say this, now? Here of all places? ‘Jaskier.’

The bard bit down on his lower lip, ‘Fine. No, I get it.’

Jaskier stood to move, perhaps even to leave. He spun so harshly on his heel that Geralt thought he might have been angry enough not to return. Or if not angry, then, hurt. It was only the feel of a hand around his wrist that stopped him, and even then he was only stopped physically. The bard protested, told Geralt he’d find elsewhere to stay, thanked him for his help in getting here. None of it registered with the witcher. All he could wonder was _why_ he chose _here of all places_.

Standing, carefully, Geralt moved so that his body was between the bard and the door. Everything seemed to happen achingly slowly, one hand still at Jaskier’s wrist and the other coming up to his face. His fingers, as they had earlier, smoothed the hair across Jaskier’s forehead, before his thumb dropped to trace over the burn on his cheek. He had always given, and he knew how to well, only this time he had a motivation behind his touch that somehow made it far more gentle than it ever had been. There was no need to talk himself through anything when he was with Jaskier, it came as naturally as fighting did. Everything was from some depth within him, rather than a practised act. The bard’s lips pressed together and then parted, and Geralt’s thumb found itself pushing gently at their corner.   
The witcher ran his other thumb over the inside of Jaskier’s wrist in the same figure of eight he had felt earlier in the day, and Jaskier gave a short but blissful sigh. 

Every small action was soothing. Whatever barrier had built up between them in the conversation now shattered in the lack of such words. Geralt intended mostly to show Jaskier the same affection as he himself had received from the bard, his touch was a reminder of the earlier journey and an attempt to rid the brunette of his residual anger over Jan. Though Jaskier reciprocated at the same speed. Geralt felt thin fingers and then a palm hover a touch to his chest, at first he thought they may be followed through with a force to push him away, but then they curled instead into the fabric of his shirt. After that he finally met Jaskier’s gaze again, and found himself unsurprised by how close the two of them suddenly felt in proximity to one another. Soft breaths dried Jaskier’s still parted lips, and Geralt moved his thumb to the slightly smaller man’s chin. 

In the same amount of time it had taken for Geralt’s hand to fall from Jaskier’s wrist and instead cover his hip, the gap between them had been closed by both men moving in unison. The bard’s grip tightened on Geralt’s shirt, and his lips were soft against the witcher’s. There was something terrifying about the action, something that screamed at them for ever following through with it. 

Now they’d never be able to go back, and both of them knew that.

Geralt made a point not to do anything further, in a sense he almost allowed Jaskier to lead. To move too quickly now would be to prove Jaskier’s worries, even if the bard refused to acknowledge that for himself. 

The kiss was rough, and yet tender. It spoke to just how desperate both of them were. Amidst the breathlessness of the action, Geralt pulled away momentarily, and only as far as to allow himself to speak. ‘You’re more than entertainment.’

Jaskier smiled. The white haired character felt the curve brush his own lips, and, when the kiss resumed, the wetness of Jaskier’s cheeks against his palm. The tears were hard to pick a cause for- perhaps it was relief, or sadness, or the release of anger. Perhaps it was that longing again. That longing that Geralt had always known was for him, even when he said he didn’t. That longing that was only an external mirror from the bard of Geralt’s own internal feelings. 

Longing was the only monster Geralt had ever been unable to kill.

‘That’s all I need to be for now.’ Jaskier finally spoke himself, at last loosening his grip on the witcher’s shirt. ‘That’s all I needed to hear.’

Both of them had more to say. Both of them would always have more to say. 

Jaskier was the first to pull away, however reluctantly the action may have come about. A yawn escaped his lips and he lay his forehead gently against Geralt’s shoulder. The witcher gave a small smile of his own, one reserved only for Jaskier and the moments like this one, and curled his arm around the bard’s waist where his hand has originally sat at his hip. With Jaskier pulled so close to him, he could truly feel how warm the man was, a warmth that might have been comforting if not for the knowledge of its origin. Geralt spoke softly against the brunette’s ear as he looked over his shoulder towards his bed for the night.

‘Let me finish getting everything ready, you should sit.’

Jaskier mumbled something unintelligible, likely something defiant to the idea of having to move, before nodding against Geralt’s shoulder and pulling away to situate himself on the stable floor. 

The witcher, content and more hopeful than he had been earlier, continued his making the two stalls more comfortable than they were before. Hay, old sacks, and leather horse tack wouldn’t make the most splendid beds ever, but for one night, they’d do. When he was done, he glanced over to his companion, who seemed somewhere halfway between being asleep and awake, and was watching him with a soft expression. 

‘Is it king sized?’ Jaskier joked, eyeing the stall floor and carefully pushing himself to stand. 

‘They’re fit for any king who’s run away from war.’

‘That was poetic,’ The bard smiled, raised a brow, and then dropped his expression in place of realising something, ‘They? Two?’

Geralt looked to where Jaskier’s gaze had fallen, to the two separate sleeping areas he’d made in the two somewhat conjoined stalls. Perhaps that’d been a mistake, but he could only think back to his early thought of not moving too fast. ‘In my defense I started before we…’

‘Oh. Yeah.’ Jaskier accepted this, nodding and giving a small smile at the thought. Really it had only partial truth to it but still, if they were going to sleep in the same place tonight Geralt would rather that happen naturally than they be forced together because he’d decided to manufacture a situation to fit that ideal. ‘Left or right then?’

‘Whichever you prefer.’

‘I’ll take right, being between you and Roach makes me feel like there’s a chance I might not get murdered in a creepy old stable.’

Geralt scoffed, nodding and moving out of the way so that Jaskier could claim his space. Though the bard still moved close enough to his companion to brush his arm as he did.  
It was worth wondering how many more touches such as that one they’d encounter now, after all this. How much more aware would they be of the other’s presence, would it be sweet, or painful? Just as much as Jaskier had been cautious that he wasn’t simply an add on subscription in the witcher’s life, Geralt was cautious that he wouldn’t simply be another of the people Jaskier claimed to have fallen for. 

It was too easy for them both to fall into their usual habits and in attempting to avoid doing so they had, for a long time, pushed each other only further away. So what now? What does it say of their relationship to finally give in and throw caution to the wind? 

Geralt couldn’t be sure, and if Jaskier was thinking anything like him, he assumed the bard couldn’t be sure either. 

All the more reason to sleep in separate beds. 

Though, Geralt knew all tonight would do was delay the inevitable. Jaskier was touch starved and Geralt had to at some point admit he was a similar way. Tomorrow morning they’d set off again and Jaskier would not do so on foot, in the next town they’d get a room in an Inn together. Their version of slow was never really going to be all that slow, just slowed down. And he was okay with that, for him time was no issue, he had heaps of it. But a single heap of his time was Jaskier’s entire lifetime, and that meant that slow as a measure in and of itself was hardly an option. The witcher watched as Jaskier patted around on the floor, attempting to find the most comfortable position to lay in, and he slid down to lay on his own back. 

Somehow the action of seeing the break of the clouds through a crack above his head and hearing the sudden thud of rain outside was a comfort to him. 

To his side, Jaskier traced patterns in the dirt and battled the urge to let his eyelids fall shut. A battle he would lose rather quickly, as soon enough occasional light snores mixed with the noise of rainfall in a way that lulled the witcher himself to sleep, arm still outstretched from where he had unknowingly reached out to stroke between Jaskier’s shoulder blades with his finger.

When day broke, Jaskier’s own hand had grabbed that one that lay beside him.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the longest fic I have ever written. At this point I don't care if it's good or not I'm posting it anyway.


End file.
